


If I Had A Wish (Or Even A Choice)

by ladyblahblah



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Bottom Derek, Derek is a Failwolf, M/M, Masturbation, Phone Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-18
Updated: 2013-01-18
Packaged: 2017-11-25 21:41:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,892
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/643258
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ladyblahblah/pseuds/ladyblahblah
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles has a preference for written porn.  He also has a thing for Derek's voice.  So when Derek finds his erotica collection, this is clearly either the best or the worst thing that's ever happened to him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	If I Had A Wish (Or Even A Choice)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [HalfFizzbin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/HalfFizzbin/gifts).



> This is [halffizzbin](http://archiveofourown.org/users/HalfFizzbin/pseuds/HalfFizzbin)'s auction fic, won during the Sterek Campaign's auction to benefit Wolf Haven International. Her request was for the following: " *Derek’s voice is basically sex. *At least one scene where Stiles gets off to Derek reading porn over the phone, and tries not to let on that he’s doing it. *Derek accidentally getting carried away and just telling Stiles what he wants to do to him / what he wants Stiles to do to him. *Derek maybe being a little intimidated because he DOESN’T KNOW HOW TO SEX, at least not anything fancy, but some of this porn Stiles likes is really kinky, okay? Like there are all kinds of props involved, Derek is overwhelmed." And since she also likes bottom!Derek, I threw some of that in, as well. I DID MY BEST FOR YOU, DARLING!
> 
> The title was taken from the BNL song "Sound of Your Voice". Because for some reason I had issues writing random erotica for this, all of the parts in italics are adapted from various fics I've written previously.

 

 

“I'm telling you, I remember reading something about crows recently.” Stiles has his eyes glued to his computer screen, sifting through his browser history. “Flocks of crows . . . swarming . . . is it still swarming if it's birds?” He shakes his head sharply. “Maybe it was in the bestiary. Check it out while I do this, would you?”

 

“You have a hard copy of Argent's bestiary?” Stiles doesn't look up, but it doesn't matter; he can _hear_ what Derek's eyebrows are doing, and he rolls his eyes.

 

“It's on my Kindle, dumbass. On my headboard. It's a PDF; just do a search for 'crows' and see if anything comes up.” He smirks to himself. “Think you can manage to find the power button without help?”

 

“Bite me.”

 

“Better that than the other way around.” Stiles turns his attention back to his work. There's a recent tab in his history that looks promising, and he gets so caught up in reading that it takes him nearly ten full minutes to realize that Derek has been quiet for entirely too long. Which means he's either fucked off out the window like the goddamn Batman, or . . . “Everything going okay back there?”

 

“Fine.”

 

Derek's voice sounds strange, and it's enough to finally get Stiles to turn around. He finds Derek perched on the edge of the bed with Stiles's Kindle cradled in his hands, his eyebrows raised so high that they're all but disappearing into his hairline. His face looks . . . Stiles peers closer. It looks almost _flushed_ , and realization hits just a second or two too late.

 

“You know,” Derek says, clearly fighting back laughter now, “if you're going to hand this thing over to other people, you might want to close out files that you'd rather keep to yourself.”

 

“Wh— _oh my god_ ,” Stiles yelps, vaulting out of his chair so violently that it crashes against the desk and topples to the floor. He couldn't care less, entirely focused at the moment on getting the device away from Derek. “That's not the bestiary!”

 

“Yeah, no kidding.” Derek's on his feet as well, now, though he doesn't seem in any hurry to hand the Kindle back. There's the hint of something almost like a smile at the corners of his mouth, which is rare enough that it would have Stiles grinning right back if he weren't busy trying not to melt into a useless puddle of horror and humiliation. “I'll admit, I haven't read it from cover to cover,” Derek is saying, “but I'm pretty sure I'd remember if there were anything like—”

 

“Don't, don't, god, just give it here, c'mon man—”

 

“ _She finds herself pinned to the bed by more-than-human strength as he ruts mindlessly into her, all possession and brutal, animal lust._ ”

 

Stiles freezes.

 

“ _It's heat, and violence, and single-minded intensity._ ” Derek reads, and god, _god_ , his _voice_. Even through the obvious mockery, the timbre and the rumble of it has helpless bolts of heat racing down Stiles's spine. “ _Bruises blooming over her skin and fierce satisfaction in him at the sight_ ,” he says as Stiles simply stares at his mouth, watching as it wraps around the words, “ _taking her in every way imaginable, claiming her so completely that not even the memory of another man can survive._.”

 

Derek lifts his eyes from the screen to smirk at him. “Not exactly what I'd have expected you to—”

 

Stiles sees the exact moment that it hits him; he sees Derek's nostrils flare, watches his eyes widen as he takes in what Stiles can only imagine must be the suddenly overwhelming stench of his arousal. He waits a beat, two, three, but the ground stubbornly refuses to open up and swallow him whole.

 

Disappointing.

 

“Well.” Derek clears his throat, and it sounds as loud as a gunshot in the sudden silence. “I'm going to do a sweep around town. You keep looking, see if you can find—”

 

“Yeah.” Stiles nods so hard his head feels like it might fall off. Frankly, that might be a blessing at this point. “Sure thing, I'll keep you posted.”

 

It's not until almost an hour after Derek's disappeared through his window that Stiles realizes, leaning back to rest his straining eyes, that Derek took the Kindle with him.

 

 

**********************  
  


 

“Who's in mortal peril?” Stiles asks the second he picks his phone up. “Is it Isaac? It's Isaac, isn't it? It's been way too long since he almost got gutted by something, I keep telling you guys he's due.”

 

Silence for a moment, then, “Isaac's fine. Everyone's fine.”

 

“Everyone—fucking hell.”

 

He flops back onto the bed, a hand pressed firmly over his racing heart. Which is only pounding as hard as it is because he's still caught up in a one-of-our-friends-is-about-to-die adrenaline rush, and has nothing to do with Derek's voice in his ear making him hot and humiliated all over again. Which is the story he'll go to his grave telling, thanks very much.

 

“You sound almost disappointed.”

 

“It's like three in the morning, dude,” Stiles groans, and sure, he might've been staring at the dark ceiling instead of sleeping, but it's the principle of the thing, damn it. “If no one's dead or dying, couldn't this have waited until morning? Like, the part of morning where the sun's actually up?”

 

“I wanted to let you know you can stop researching. I made a loop through the preserve, just to check things out. It looks like that big storm we had caused a mudslide near the cliffs, and the sasquatch we buried out there . . . isn't so much buried, anymore.”

 

“Oh.” Stiles rubs at his eyes and sighs. “So. Big dead thing just ripe for the picking, huh?”

 

“The crows have nearly picked it clean by now,” Derek confirms.

 

“Just nature, then. Gross, revolting nature, but still better than something else that wants to murder us all. Again.” There's silence for a stretch of seconds, and he almost doesn't say it. No good can come of it, only further embarrassment. He'll just ask Scott later if he'll ask Derek— “So does that mean I can have my Kindle back?”

 

“Hmm.” It's a low, thoughtful noise, rumbling out of the back of Derek's throat, and a shiver wracks its way down Stiles's spine at the sound of it. “I don't know. There's some interesting stuff on here.”

 

“That's . . .” Stiles has to stop and swallow hard in an effort to keep his voice from going embarrassingly high. “That's private.”

 

“You're not kidding.” There's a faint creaking sound over the line, as if Derek is settling back onto his own bed. Stiles can picture it: long legs stretched out in front of him, lips curled into a smirk, the hem of his shirt maybe sliding up just the tiniest bit . . . “You've got some surprising stuff on here.”

 

“Do I?” Stiles doesn't know what's going on, but Derek doesn't sound disgusted or mocking anymore, and his voice feels like it's wrapping around him while he lies there in the dark, and maybe . . . maybe he can just go with it. “Give me a for-instance?”

 

“This one.” There's a pause just long enough for Stiles to realize that he's slid a hand beneath his t-shirt to stroke over his stomach, and when, exactly, had that happened? “With the leather gloves.”

 

“Oh.” Stiles is hard now, sinking his teeth into his lower lip as he fights the urge to move his hand lower. Not until . . . unless . . . “Which one is that again?”

 

“ _Oliver's gloves are still on, and the feel of butter-soft leather skating over his skin has Karl so hard he’s surprised he doesn’t simply explode._ That one.”

 

“Oh my god.”

 

Stiles can't hold back the moan, couldn't stop himself from reaching down to squeeze his dick through the soft drape of his pajama pants if he tried. His own breathing is loud in his ears as he waits, breathless, for the sound of Derek's laughter.

 

“ _A hand curls around his throat, painful pressure against his collarbone, until Karl's eyes focus on the face above his,_ ” is what he hears instead, and his hand is down his pants within the space of a breath, his eyes staring blindly into the darkness as Derek's voice pours smooth, filthy words into his ear. _“When Oliver pushes inside it’s sudden, and violent, and Karl can’t even begin to imagine a defense against it. He almost doesn’t feel the hand that wraps around his cock, smooth leather stroking him to climax. Oliver is moving hard and fast, burning through everything that’s not him, that’s not_ them—”

 

Stiles's mind turns to buzzing white noise, blank beyond the silk of the voice in his ear. His body tightens and he comes in a sudden rush, spilling hot and sticky over his hand. His chest is heaving, and he's finally started to take in oxygen in a normal, fully-functioning way again when he finally realizes that Derek has fallen silent.

 

“Uh.”

 

“Get some sleep, Stiles.” The words are soft, amused and . . . something else that Stiles is too tired to think too hard about.

 

“Sure.” He makes a half-hearted fumble towards the tissues behind his head, but his body is heavy and his mind is already slipping into sleep. “Soun's good.”

 

He doesn't hear what Derek says in response, if anything. He'll worry about it later. Probably. For now though, it's three-thirty in the morning, and he's feeling too relaxed to worry about anything at all.

 

 

**********************  
  


 

They don't talk about it, this thing they do.

 

It doesn't happen every night, or even most nights. Stiles has school and SATs and college applications, and Derek has a handful of teenaged werewolves to train and a stretch of territory—apparently an impressively large one, given his age, and wasn't _that_ an interesting revelation—to defend, and both of them have a surprising number of things that want them dead, captured, or otherwise broken. Suffice it to say that they both have more than enough to keep them busy.

 

But every now and then . . .

 

Every now and then Stiles will know, just _know_ somehow, even as the phone's still ringing, and he'll scramble to answer it while he strips off as many of his clothes as possible at the same time.

 

Two weeks ago he also thought to hook his gaming headset into his phone, because hands-free technology was invented for a reason, and Stiles is a _fucking genius_.

 

And sure, no, they don't talk about it. Stiles has no idea what Derek is thinking when he makes these calls. But hell, he doesn't know what _he's_ thinking, either, and he refuses to ruin things by turning it into some sort of a big deal. Not when he has a solid lock on his door and Derek's voice filling his head, and the presence of mind this time to drag things out a little.

 

“ _Grant had promised to be gentle; John hadn’t.,_ ” Derek is saying, his voice already low and rough, and Stiles's legs are trembling with the effort it takes to keep from thrusting up into his own hand. “ _He gave Grant's shoulders a hard shove, smiling wickedly in the dark when the larger man allowed himself to be pushed over onto his back._ ”

 

Stiles can see it clearly. _Too_ clearly, because he's past the point of pretending that he's imagining anyone other than Derek when they do this. Pushing Derek down; Derek _letting_ him, because he wants this just as much, wants _Stiles_ , and fuck drawing things out after all, he thinks. He tightens his grip, speeding his strokes.

 

“ _John leaned down to kiss him again, tangling his fingers in unexpectedly soft hair as he rocked his hips, grinding their cocks together. Then he leaned back and lifted himself up, letting Grant's big hands on his hips hold him steady as he sank back down and impaled himself on Grant's cock_.”

 

The image hits him like a sledgehammer: Derek sprawled beneath him, eyes wide and surprised as Stiles rides him hard and fast. He can almost feel Derek's hands pressing bruises into his hips. He wonders if it would be crossing a line if he tried fingering himself while Derek read to him, and the thought alone is enough to push him over the edge, toes curling hard against the mattress as he comes in a series of hard, sharp shocks.

 

He's used to his orgasms wiping him out, sending him spiraling into a blissfully relaxed if sticky sleep. As his head clears this time, though, he realizes that he feels _wired_ , high and energetic on adrenaline and endorphins. Derek is still talking, and Stiles wonders if maybe he didn't hear him coming this time, if maybe he'll keep going long enough for Stiles to get off again.

 

“—amazing, feeling you inside,” Derek's saying. and Stiles settles in to listen until he recovers enough to return to active participation. “Been so long,” he mutters, breathless and quiet, like the gentle murmurs Stiles hears when he's dazed and half-aware after he comes. “Too damn long. Want to feel that, want to see what fucking me does to those gorgeous eyes of yours, _fuck_ , Stiles—”

 

Stiles makes a sound, something between a gasp and a squeak, and the line goes silent.

 

“Derek?”

 

His voice is high and unsteady, and he knows that this is the moment to say something, to say _anything_ , but his mind is completely blank with the sudden realization of what Derek was saying. He was talking about Stiles. He was—oh god, he was _touching himself_ while he thought about Stiles, oh _god_.

 

“I'll talk to you later,” Derek says at last, calmly enough for anyone who doesn't know him well enough to hear the slight edge of panic in his voice. “You should get some sleep.”

 

“But—”

 

“Goodnight.”

 

The line goes dead and Stiles is left staring into the darkness of his room, heart and mind racing like mad.

 

 

**********************  
  


 

Stiles has been sitting outside of Derek's apartment for over an hour when he hears footsteps in the stairwell. He scrambles to his feet as the footsteps slow, then stop; he's just about to start moving himself when the door swings open and Derek steps through, his face a blank mask as he marches down the hall.

 

“Did you need something?” he asks, keys already out of his coat pocket and setting to work opening the truly excessive number of locks on his door.

 

“My dad gave me this when I got home from lacrosse practice,” Stiles say, holding up the Kindle he's been fiddling with as he waited. “Said you stopped by and told him you spotted it in the library lost and found. He said to make sure I thanked you for returning it.”

 

“It's yours,” Derek shrugs, still focused on the door and conveniently avoiding Stiles's eyes. “I never meant to take it in the first place; I should've given it back sooner.”

 

“Yeah. I guess so.” Derek is on the last lock now, and Stiles is starting to panic. “Are we really never going to talk about this? Because man, I've been sitting here for like seventy minutes now and my ass is completely numb, can we just—” A faint flush tinges Derek's ears pink, and Stiles takes a moment's relief that his mind apparently wasn't the only one in the gutter. The last lock opens and Derek pushes the door open. “Please? Just . . . look, just ten minutes? Five?”

 

Derek sighs, heavy and deep, but he shrugs and shoves the door open wider. “Five minutes.”

 

“Cool.”

 

Stiles steps inside, rubbing his hands on his thighs as he looks around. The place is the same as the last time he was here: big enough to feel uncomfortably empty with Derek's minimal furniture; clean, but sort of drab apart from the brightly-patterned throw pillows that Stiles would assume were Erica's work if he hadn't seen Boyd picking out the fabric himself.

 

“So.” He sets the Kindle on the coffee table and turns to face Derek. “Is it the age thing, or have you just, like, not gotten laid in forever and it was nothing personal?” Derek is staring at him like Stiles just cold-cocked him with a two-by-four, and Stiles throws his hands in the air. “ _You_ said five minutes! I'm trying to cut to the chase here.”

 

“It's not—” Derek's jaw tightens, and he looks away again. “The age difference is . . . a consideration.”

 

“Okay. Sure. A consideration, yeah, but not why you haven't answered or returned any of my calls for a week?”

 

“I'm not obligated to call you back,” Derek snaps. “We're not dating.”

 

“But we could be.” Stiles takes a hesitant step forward, stopping when Derek skitters back like Stiles is armed and dangerous. “I mean, unless it really was just a generic sort of—”

 

“It wasn't.” Derek closes his eyes, takes a deep breath. When he opens them again there's a distance there, and it makes Stiles want to gather him in close even as it warns him to keep back. “I want you; denying it would be pretty pointless now. But I can't give you what _you_ want, okay? I don't . . .” He sighs in obvious frustration. “The things you like, Stiles, I can't . . . I don't know _how_ to . . .”

 

“Um. Okay, I'm gonna stop you here for a couple of reasons. First of all, you're so freakin' cute right now it's making me want to, like, I don't know, cuddle the shit out of you or something, and I'm guessing you probably wouldn't really appreciate that.” Stiles has to actually sink his teeth into his lips to keep from grinning at the glare Derek gives him for that. “See? I'm totally right. But second . . . dude.” He flings an arm back towards the coffee table. “Is that seriously what this was about? That's just—I mean, you can't judge a guy by his porn! I have shit on there about a dude getting gangbanged by a group of horny ghosts, too—”

 

“I know.”

 

“Of course you do,” Stiles mutters, feeling his face flare bright red. “The point is, it doesn't mean I actually want that to happen. Right? So just . . . I like you, okay? I mean, you're kind of an asshole, but so am I, so I figure that would probably work out okay. And I'd really, _really_ like to have any sort of sex you're into, kinky or vanilla, I swear I don't even care, I just—I really want to kiss you right now, could I maybe do that without you clawing my fa—”

 

That's as far as he gets before Derek has his hands framing Stiles's face, holding him steady as he leans in to press a hot, hard kiss to Stiles's mouth. It's a little bit scared, and more than a little bit desperate, and when Stiles brings his hands up to bury them in Derek's hair it sparks a groan that has Stiles half-hard already. And they should be taking this slow, he knows they should, but when he drops his hands to yank at Derek's hips and feels him just as hard, _slow_ and _careful_ go flying out the window. He hauls Derek around, thrilling a little at the fact that Derek _lets_ him, that he's holding tight to Stiles's shoulders like he's trying to get closer, and they tumble onto the couch in a messy tangle of limbs.

 

“Is this, uh. Is this okay?” he pulls back to gasp, the words trailing off into a groan as Derek moves his legs so that Stiles can slip between them.

 

“Yes,” Derek says, halfway between a groan and a growl himself, his hands sliding into Stiles's back pockets to pull him closer. “Yes, fuck, more than okay.”

 

“Okay. Okay, good.” Stiles drops his forehead to rest against Derek's shoulder, whimpering just the tiniest bit when Derek starts to kiss and nip at his ear and neck. He works a hand between them, hesitant at first, but when Derek's hips lift encouragingly he takes it as the go-ahead to start fumbling their jeans open. “Talk to me,” he begs, sliding Derek's zipper down and easing his hand inside. “Please.”

 

“I don't . . . what— _fuck_ , god yes—what do you want me to—”

 

“Anything, I don't care,” Stiles groan, pulling himself out as well, his eyes nearly rolling back in his head when Derek reaches down to add his hand to Stiles's wrapped around them both. “You can give me the fucking 'the bite is a gift' recruitment speech, tell me about your third-grade art projects, _anything_ , just—your voice, I—”

 

“I've thought about you fucking me.”

 

“ _Oh my god_ ,” Stiles moans, hips jerking helplessly forward, and he buries his face in Derek's neck. “Yeah, that's . . . that's better.”

 

“It's hard to _stop_ thinking about it sometimes. About . . . seeing you sitting on this couch when we're meeting about something, I just want to climb into your lap and ride you until you can't _breathe_ without saying my name. I think about you pinning me face-first against the wall and fucking me like that. I want to feel you inside me; want to feel what it's like when you lose control.”

 

Stiles can't talk; he doesn't have the words. He sets his teeth in Derek's throat instead, feeling the answering moan vibrate against his lips and tongue. Their hands are moving fast between them, and Stiles's head is spinning from the feeling of Derek touching him, of them sliding against each other and he can't, he _can't_ , it's too much, and he's coming all over both of them. He hears Derek take a deep breath, feels the rise and fall of his chest beneath him, and then with a choked grunt Derek is coming as well, hot and sticky and fucking hell, Stiles has someone else's come on him and he hasn't even gotten undressed yet.

 

“Okay, I've gotta say,” he manages to slur after a moment, “the fact that you're still wearing your leather jacket made that, like, at least fifteen percent hotter.”

 

“Hey. _Hey_.” Derek pokes him in the stomach, hard enough to make Stiles yelp and squirm. “Don't you dare fall asleep; I'm not letting this shit dry all over me, understand?”

 

“Such a romantic.” Stiles kisses the edge of Derek's jaw, because it's there and because he _can_. “It's cool, we'll get cleaned up; just gotta wait for my legs to start working again.”

 

“Are you sure you want to . . .” Derek trails off, stroking an absent hand down Stiles's back. “This isn't going to be easy, you know.”

 

“Pretty sure if I cared about things being easy I'd have moved out of town by now. It's cool, though.” He arches his back just a little in the hopes that Derek won't stop what he's doing. “We'll work it out. And you know, with the sex stuff, I figure we can just start with the basics.” He leans up enough to favor Derek with his most shit-eating grin. “Like me plowing your ass until you can't even walk straight. Which, you know, your ass is _totally_ plowable, so excellent choice there.”

 

Derek lifts an eyebrow, looking like he's doing his best to hold back a smirk. “I gave some pretty serious thought to fucking you, too, you know.”

 

“Cool.” Stiles leans down to kiss him, humming softly when Derek sighs and pulls him closer. “Good to know we've got options.”

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> As always, you can follow me on Tumblr at the handle [hungrylikethewolfie](http://www.hungrylikethewolfie.tumblr.com). COME AND BE FRIENDS, LET US ENJOY FANNISH THINGS TOGETHER!


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